


Making Memories

by fullyajar



Series: For Our Eyes Only [4]
Category: Glee
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, F/F, Gay Panic, Kink Meme, Season/Series 01, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:55:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1668770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullyajar/pseuds/fullyajar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tina just had to make some photocopies. Tina is mortified. Tina will never be the same again.</p><p>Partly angst, partly humor, lots of smut.</p><p>Also, a fill for <a href="http://glee-kink-meme.livejournal.com/1414.html?thread=5302150#t5302150">this prompt</a> and <a href="http://glee-kink-meme.livejournal.com/1224.html?thread=3242440#t3242440">this prompt</a> at the Glee Kink Meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brittany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Contains description of Brittany (remembering) sleeping with dudes.  
> Also, this chapter is fairly angsty and NC-17.

Brittany loves when Santana does this. It’s awesome enough already to skip class with her, no matter what the occasion. But then the occasion is a quickie, it’s double awesome – like extra icing on a free cake, or on Santana – either one.

It’s even better when Santana is like this – completely insatiable. Brittany’s learned a while ago that it’s more of a mood with Santana than anything. It happens very often, and in the past, whenever Santana would disappear for half an hour and come back with pristine lipstick and her hair done anew, Brittany knew it was Puck she ran to. Now, it seems, it’s Brittany.

She secretly guffaws deploringly at Puck’s stamina, because although Puck and Santana’s many rendezvous’ had definitely fit the definition of a ‘quickie’, she and Santana’s do not. Their classes are an hour, and the bell signaling its end rang a few minutes ago. It’s lunch break now, but Santana had showed no signs of tiring (even after two orgasms). When her suggestive smile had been eagerly returned, Brittany had wasted no time in falling to her knees and pressing Santana’s thighs apart.

The copy machine beeps in protest as Santana’s left thigh presses a button.

It’s definitely an exciting prospect – getting caught screwing on the copy machine in the Cheerios equipment room. She’d lifted Santana onto the warm glass surface without really thinking it through, and when Santana had laughed and wrapped her legs around her, she knew she’d made the right move, and the location barely crossed her mind again.

Chances are, though, they’ll break the poor thing. Santana is dripping _everywhere._

Brittany’s licking as gently as she can without letting Santana’s high diminish, because a few minutes ago she’d started out a little overeagerly and Santana has nearly ripped out a chunk of skin on her scalp.

_Oops._

Her hand in her hair hadn’t moved, and Brittany’s enjoying it immensely. Her fingers are kneading in time to the rhythm, not pressing, but simply holding her head, urging her gently (though she doesn’t need it – she’ll do whatever Santana asks, always). Santana’s never actually touched her before while she’s going down on her. Actually, she rarely touches her at all while Brittany pleasures her, no matter what position they’re in. She holds the bedpost, or grips the sheets, or touches herself wherever Brittany’s not working on her. But her hands rarely stray to Brittany skin, when literally every other part of them is skin on skin.

Unless it’s to push away.

Brittany frowns at that, because that does happen. Sometimes she doesn’t know why, because Santana simply… ends whatever they were doing. It’s really as simple as that. Pushes her away, rearranges her clothes a bit, and says “See you tomorrow,” her face a mask that Brittany can barely see behind. She rarely says a word about it, and Brittany’s learned trying to ask if she did anything wrong is futile, because 1) Santana’s phone is always off afterwards, and 2) if she does get her alone, Santana pushes her onto the nearest surface and basically ravages her, and by the time Brittany is crying out in pleasure, apology is dripping from Santana’s whole face as much as something else is usually dripping from between Brittany’s legs, and Brittany’s doesn’t have the heart to bring it up.

She’s not angry – because she doesn’t think she could ever _really_ get angry with Santana, at least not enough to not talk to her or push back or refuse her apology – but she’s confused. It doesn’t last long, because for her apology and forgiveness are an instant cure for any confusion that’s infected her, but because it happens again and again, just a trace of it lingers, and Brittany wonders.

Any guys she sleeps with can’t get enough of touching her while she’s pleasuring them. It annoys her sometimes, actually. She knows she’s pretty hot, and that her body is bangin’ (Santana had said that once, while they were _actually_ banging, so she believes her completely), but the touching can get a little irritating. They mess up her hair while she’s on her knees, or pull too hard, or press her face so close she can barely breathe. Their hands are rough and just a little too eager on her breasts – _yes, they’re attached, thanks._ Sometimes they scratch – though in that they’re different from Santana, because _they_ never leave marks. Santana has. In the few times Santana _has_ touched her, it’s been when she’s coming, and it’s been with as much roughness as any of the guys she’s been with – plus nails. She doesn’t mind, because she knows how disorienting a good orgasm can be, but she wonders why the guys can’t get enough of touching her, and Santana simply refuses to.

Sometimes she wishes Santana would touch her like she touches her when _she’s_ the one being licked and rubbed to orgasm after orgasm.

Santana lets out a rough grunt when Brittany’s tongue flattens against her clit in just the right way, and her fingers tighten in her hair for a second so it borders on pain but never really reaches it. She smiles. She’s getting close.

She remembers last night: Santana was on her back with Brittany above her, fingers pushing deep into her and her mouth on her breast, and Brittany remembers vividly how one of Santana’s hands was gripping the bed for stability while the other was on her free breast. It was actually the view Brittany had of that – her fingers rolling her nipple between them, starting at a leisurely pace and speeding up slowly – that gave Brittany her cues. Her eyes hungrily followed the intoxicating, intensely arousing image that she only had to tilt her head to get the full view of, drawing clues from the subtle movements about where Santana was pleasure-wise. She kept up the rhythm in time to Santana’s own hand on her breast. She pressed her fingers in anytime Santana rolled her nipple. She slid a thumb across her clit and saw Santana’s busy hand tremble in response before kneading her breast again with renewed vigor.

And at one point, she pulled out completely and pushed back in with a simultaneous sharp bite on the nipple in her mouth – and Santana’s hand had detached from her breast and reached, shuddering, to her face. It hung there for a moment, unsure, deciding. Perhaps it was Brittany’s sharp, surprised intake of breath – _Santana was going to touch her_ – that alerted the brunette, because as soon as she did, her hand fell back on her body.

And then she was coming and the moment was forgotten.

Until Santana had lightly rested her hand on her head when she’d lifted her legs over her shoulders a few minutes ago, like it was no big deal. Like she didn’t know Brittany had seen her yesterday – had seen the indecision in the tremor of her hand and felt the hope surge in her chest for what it could mean. Santana had simply smoothed back the stray hairs that had escaped Brittany’s ponytail, and left her hand there. Brittany had looked up in surprise to catch Santana smiling at her openly, a lingering haze from her last two orgasms still coloring her cheeks and making her eyelids droop with contentment.  When she caught her eye, her smile faded a bit, but in a playful voice, she had simply demanded, “Well?”

Brittany didn’t need any more encouragement than that.

And now, while Santana’s heels are digging into her back and she’s biting her lip in pleasure, Brittany’s counting her lucky stars because the hand in her hair hasn’t stopped its guiding and its urging, and it’s so much easier to follow physical cues than visual ones. Because not only does Santana rarely touch her – _Until now!_ Brittany thinks happily – she’s also insanely quiet. Sure, she talks once in a while. Brittany actually loves it when she does. She’s always liked instructions – they don’t require too much thinking, and they usually say exactly what she needs to do to get a passing grade or fix a nice dinner or, of course, get Santana to clench around her fingers or buck her hips into her face – even if it’s usually a silent affair. But in between words, Santana keeps completely mum. She breathes through an open mouth to hide her gasps, she bites her lip to keep from moaning, and the cry Brittany always hopes to hear when she makes her come is instead a subdued grunt behind a muffling hand.

And though Brittany doubts that _that’s_ changed with the simple act of tangling her hand in her hair, it feels like a submission, though subtle, to a connection between them beyond physical. And strangely, Santana’s made it with a simple touch.

Not to mention she’s enjoying this so much more now. She _knows_ Santana, and she’s figured out what she likes using sight (a quaking thigh, a clenching fist, an arched back), and this moment lets her confirm everything she’s learned. She runs her hands up Santana’s naked thighs like she’s worshipping her, and slips her tongue deeper between her folds, lapping up her wetness. Santana cants her hips to accommodate her, and Brittany feels her fingertips press into her scalp – not scratching, just approving.

She flicks the tip of her tongue across the sensitive bud that she’d found in no time the first time she did this – repeats, repeats, repeats – and Santana’s hand stills completely for fear of interrupting.

She drags her bottom lip along Santana’s slick flesh. The wetness slides hotly into her mouth, and she’s trying to keep from smiling and ruining this because she knows that her lips are as smooth as her tongue is rough, and this touch – the inside of her bottom lip over everything in sight – is simultaneously the most frustrating and satisfying feeling for Santana.

Finally, she can’t resist the smile, and she pulls back and simply kisses straight into Santana’s wetness. Her face is going to be a mess, but she’s going to enjoy this moment – this chance to explore and to understand and to make Santana come apart with sheer wanting of release.

Santana’s fingers tense in her hair, like she’s not sure what Brittany’s doing and she’s awaiting further information.

Brittany moves one of her hands subtly between Santana’s legs while she continues pressing light kisses across her sex, and when Santana’s grip loosens – accepting the blonde’s new, although unexpected and a little bewildering, ministrations – Brittany slips two fingers into her. It’s sudden and it’s deep, but it’s gentle – she doesn’t push against resistance, and she lets Santana mold around her fingers more than attempting to drive against her pliant walls and force the pleasure from her body.

Santana’s reaction is instant – her hand tightens in her hair, her walls tighten around Brittany’s fingers, and – to Brittany’s surprise – a loud, strangled cry of pleasure slips out from between lips that escaped biting teeth.

The sound is completely unexpected and Brittany doesn’t think she’s ever heard anything so wonderful. It’s the icing on the icing of the cake because her fingers feel trapped in the best possible way, like Santana’s body is fighting gravity to hold her there, her body is warm against her face, her skin is slick under her tongue, she tastes salty and tangy and delightful, and she swears she could stay here forever.

As quickly as the moan had escaped, it’s cut off with a sharp intake of breath.

Followed by an unnatural silence so loud that Brittany’s heart shoots straight into her throat.

And then Santana’s grip loosens and her fingers are gone and something bends in Brittany so far that it’s fear of it breaking that has her sputtering a plea without meaning to.

“Please.”

She think she knows what she’ll find when she looks up – the same expression Santana wears when she pushes her away: betrayal (at what, Brittany doubts she will ever understand), guilt or sadness or something in between, and a hint of fear under a mask of indignant anger. And she’s right – but there’s something else too.

Concern.

It’s enough to mobilize Brittany’s tongue.

“Your hand. Put it back.”

It’s not exactly what she wants to say. She wants to say _Please don’t push me away again_ or _Stay_ or ask what the fuck is going on (curse words and all).

But she knows from experience it’ll only send her away faster.

Santana’s mouth opens to say something, but there’s only silence.

Brittany thinks she should get used to that by now.

She holds her gaze, and though the moment’s not long, she knows what she needs to say.

“It helps me know what you like. What I need to do. Put it back.”

She’s not sure why that’s what Santana needs. Sometimes she just has a feeling about Santana – same as with math – that the answer she’s thinking of is either completely right or completely wrong. It’s a gut instinct she’s learned to follow – albeit blindly – and it hasn’t led her astray so far.

This time, though – even though Santana’s face seems to relax somewhat and her quivering uncertainty is gone – Brittany has a feeling her spidey senses may have fixed the moment, but not the problem.

Still, a conceding smile tugs at Santana’s lips, and with a simple, “Alright,” she places her hand back in Brittany’s hair and urges her face forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry Santana is being somewhat abusive to Brittany. I want to try really exploring Santana before she was even close to admitting how she felt, and I just think she'd have been struggling with her fears in really unhealthy ways - by lashing out, even to the person she loves the most. I don't mean to reduce her spectrum of emotion to only "Fear" and "Love" (ala Donnie Darko), but I do think it's the interaction of those that's a driving force behind her current state of mind and her actions.
> 
> Spoiler alert: Brittany will be loyal and forgiving until Duets. That's the turning point for her, as it was in the show (headcanon).  
> Warning, this was 1x14. Duets is 2x04. Long way to go!


	2. Tina

_Tina is traumatized. Tina will never be the same again. Tina just had to make some copies._

Tina needs to stop talking about herself in third person.

Also, she needs to stop looking.

She tears her eyes away, focusing instead resolutely on the red and white tiles, and takes a tentative step back, fingers tightening reflexively on the stack of papers in her arms.

She’s gone three steps when something slides into her field of vision.

Santana’s Cheerios spanks in a crumbled heap on the floor. The slight darker red stain at the crotch is unavoidable.

_Oh god._

She really needs to not be here right now.

She’s at the slightly ajar door by now, tentative, terrified steps taking her away from the immensely disturbing scene bit by bit, and she turns around. With a short sigh of relief she pushes open the door – only to see the back of coach Sylvester as she noisily pulls open Cheerios’s lockers and inspects their contents, jotting down transgressions with a stern finality only Sue could muster.

_Oh god._

She’s not supposed to be here. At all. The Cheerios copy machine is completely off-limits to non-Cheerios. The whole school knows this. But Ms. Pillsbury had asked her with pleading doe-eyes to copy her latest memo about handhygiene and spread it around the school. She’s been semi-assisting the guidance counselor since she found out about her relationship with Mr. Shue. Perhaps by helping out the strange mousey woman, she’d suggest to Mr. Shue for her to get a solo – because god knows that wouldn’t happen without a miracle.

But this was not supposed to happen. The other copier had a line. That was all. And now she’s going to get caught and kicked out of school and will never get a solo again and will never go to college and end up living under a bridge drinking beer out of brown paper bags while rats eat her babies.

Her decision is reflexive. Rock and a hard place, and all that. She takes a step back into the room, and closes the door without a sound.

Her slow turn back to the unsettling exchange between her fellow Glee club members is as gradual and dramatic as the whole situation feels.

She’s lucky Santana’s eyes are screwed shut as Brittany pushes her body (and, Tina assumes, fingers – _oh god, oh god, oh god_ ) between her legs, because Tina is _right_ in her line of sight.

She slips behind a cupboard of pompoms and swallows thickly. It’s not the best hiding place, but there aren’t many options.

She swallows again at the idea of Brittany and Santana finding her out. Especially Santana. Most likely, Tina will still end up living under a bridge drinking beer out of brown paper bags while rats eat her babies – with the rest of Santana’s victims.

Not to mention, it would be _mortifying_ to begin with, never mind the consequences.

She screws her eyes shut, determined not to look.

But there isn’t much she can do about hearing.

It takes her a second to realize there’s actually very little sound, however. She opens her eyes in curiosity.

 Brittany is breathing fast and hard as she thrusts her hips and arm forward, jolting Santana’s body slightly where the brunette is sitting on the copy machine, and it’s clear she doesn’t give a hoot about muffling her noises or getting caught. But Santana is silent. Strangely so. Her face is contorted in a vulnerable, needy expression and if the context were different, Tina might think she were in pain – her eyebrows are pulled together tensely, her eyes are screwed shut completely, and she’s biting her lip – hard. And she doesn’t make a sound.

_Curious._

Then there’s another sound, one completely at odds with everything going on.

A technical, electronic whine, followed by a mechanical whirring.

_Oh god._

Tina reappraises the view, and – yup _,_ Santana’s hand is pressing the _Copy_ button on the machine where she’s gripping it to keep herself steady.

Well, at least they’ll have some _lovely_ memorabilia.

Tina swallows in disgust, determined not to think about what the images coming out of the machine would look like. She has an idea, unfortunately. And she doesn’t want to have any idea, at all.

She looks down at the papers in her hands for a distraction.

 _Handwashing is like a "do-it-yourself" vaccine—it involves five simple and effective steps (think Wet, Lather, Scrub, Rinse, Dry) –_ it says.

Yeah, that’s not going to work as a distraction.

She looks up again, giving in to the impossible shit-uation.

The copy machine button clicks erratically after a few moments, and Tina thinks what a waste of paper this all is. Then there’s a grunt and Santana’s hand shoots out to still Brittany’s movements as she comes around her fingers.

_Ew, ew, ew._

Tina spares a thought for the copy glass Santana is spreading her juices all over – and then wishes she hadn’t. Because visuals. _Ew._

Brittany withdraws her fingers from Santana, who twitches happily and leans back with a smile on her face.

 _Finally. They’re done,_ Tina thinks with a subtle sigh of relief. She can get the hell out of here and try to scrub out her eyes. _Wet, Lather, Scrub, Rinse, Dry…_

She realizes a moment later that she spoke too soon, because Santana’s grin turns wicked, and without preamble Brittany drops on her knees and spreads Santana’s legs.

Yeah, she’s really going to need to scrub out her eyes after this.

And Brittany needs to wash her hands. Because Tina can see from here that her fingers are still wet and leave a smear on Santana’s thigh, and that’s just unhygienic.

God, she sounds like Ms. Pillsbury.

A few excruciating minutes pass in which Tina alternates focussing on the papers in her hands, the copy machine whirring out hard evidence of the scene, or the inevitable.

She settles for the inevitable, because the other two are either immensely boring or indirectly just as traumatizing.

Brittany’s going very slow. Tina doesn’t have any sort of comparison, but she thinks sex usually goes faster than this. She's read her fair share of M-rated Twilight fanfiction, and that should have prepared her for this. But it isn’t like fanfiction describes it. Brittany’s face isn’t bobbing so much as it is nodding between Santana’s legs, her neck unhurriedly bending and extending as she slides wetly across her. Tina can hear that, actually, and _that’s_ never described in fanfiction either – the wet, sometimes clicking, sounds of tongue on flesh.

Then there’s Santana.

Tina tilts her head curiously, because her expression has changed. She no longer looks wounded or cornered or pained, but she looks about ten times as vulnerable. Where before, her eyebrows and eyes were tensed shut and drawn without reprieve, now they quiver with pleasure and her expression smoothes into something utterly blissful every few seconds. One hand is still on the copy machine button ( _is she doing that on purpose?_ ), but the other, instead of gripping the machine on the other side like before, is tangled in Brittany’s messy hair where half of it had gotten undone in the last few minutes – however long they’ve been going at it.

Tina shakes her head with wonder. She knows Santana and Brittany had been sleeping together – she’d been on the phone with the big reveal. Glee club is slowly turning into a complete dating do-si-do, so it shouldn’t be surprising they’d eventually start breaching the girl-girl and guy-guy threshold, but she’d expected that to take a little longer.And then, they’d expected it to be Finn and Puck, somehow. She knows she’s alone in this (Kurt had nearly popped a blood-vessel when she’d mentioned it), but all the history, all the friendship-turned hate-turned friendship again – it leaves a mark and thins the line between friends and lovers. She’d actually kind of been looking forward to that. Besides, they’re mash-up name would be Fuck. Meant for each other.

But, it seems like Brittany and Santana ( _Santittany_? she thinks with a laugh) have taken that thunder.

Still, it’s not like they’re in love with each other or dating or anything – Santana had been quite clear that sex is not dating. So perhaps she shouldn’t count it as officially crossing the same-sex dating line at all.

Brittany’s still between Santana’s legs at the moment – but it looks like she’s… kissing her? Tina frowns. That can’t be right.

Santana’s hand tightens in Brittany’s hair like she’s enjoying this most of all, and Tina’s frown deepens.

And then she notices Brittany’s hand sneaking past Santana’s thigh and she’s about the call out in warning because _that_ can’t be right either – surprise fingering attack? What the hell? – but she stops herself and then Brittany’s hand moves quickly, and it seems Tina was completely, utterly wrong because Santana cries out like she’s never felt anything as good.

It’s the first real sound she’s made since Tina had observed them, and it’s totally surprising – both, simultaneously, that she makes a sound at all, and that it’s taken her this long to make a sound. Tina isn’t sure why she can hold those two fairly contradictory beliefs in her mind with such ease. But… if Santana’s norm is to not make sound – why has she made it now? And if she’s really enjoyed everything Brittany’s been doing to her – why didn’t she make a sound to begin with?

Fanfiction _did_ prepare her for that.

She distracted from her thoughts by the look on Santana’s face as she quickly cuts off her cry of pleasure – her face falls, and it’s like she’s surprised herself as much as Tina with the open sound she made.

Then her expression hardens visibly – tightened jaw, stony eyes, the hint of a frown – and her hand lifts from Brittany’s head.

“Please.”

 _What is going on here?_ Tina thinks in wonder as Brittany looks up with an expression that is no doubt as pleading as her voice.

This is _not_ what she’d expected to find – this turn-around, this softness that quickly crystalized into hard, unyielding stone…

She hadn’t meant the expression ‘Rock and a hard place’, literally, for god’s sake.

Brittany says something that Tina misses, and the stone gargoyle that had invaded Santana’s body softens again, like ice in the sun.

A simple “Alright,” and it’s like the moment is completely forgotten.

_Weird._

A minute later, when Santana is coming (silent as a rock), Tina’s mind is still wrapping around the unusual moment, and all she can seem to come up with is _weird._

It’s for that reason that she barely registers Santana and Brittany leaving the room (Santana swiping up and sliding into her spanks with a fluid motion), and only notices when the door shuts behind them. Her heart shoots into her throat at the realization how easily they could have seen her if they’d been even remotely focused on anything but each other, but perhaps it was her complete immobility and thoughtful, avoidant gaze that saved her from it – a prop among the pompoms, so to say.

After all, she’s pretty good at blending into the background.

She’s still contemplating this – is _that_ why she never gets solos in Glee? – when she reaches the copy machine. She did, after all, come here for a reason.

Of course, she completely forgets that copy machines are _not_ made for what this one just endured, and she nearly gags when she sees the smear on the glass. With a jolt she drops all the papers in her hands.

_Crap._

She sighs and bends to collect them, and it’s then when she spots the copies that the machine had spewed out.

_Oh god._

She really needs to escape this room of horrors.

She swipes up the rest of the papers and turns to leave, but then pauses. Because this is the Cheerios copy room, and Santana’s butt ( _ew_ ) on the copies is clearly haloed by a Cheerios skirt – not to mention the clear imprint of Brittany’s chin between Santana’s spread legs.

If Sue or another Cheerio would find the copies…

Well, she wouldn’t wish outing by copy machine on anyone.

So, with an expression of disgust, she swipes the copies as well, and runs out of the room.

By the time she falls through Ms. Pillsbury’s doorway, she’s short of breath and sweaty.

“Tina, hi! Do you have the copies?” Ms. Pillsbury asks happily when she spots Tina. However, at the mildly horrified expression on Tina’s face, her voice rises with worry. “Sweetie, what’s wrong?”

“I think I need some therapy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are much appreciated! They are like food for inspiration for a writer.


	3. Brittany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter. Short but funny, I hope.

Brittany’s locker is a strange being. Sometimes she thinks it’s like the Room of Requirement in Harry Potter, because if she walks past it a few times thinking of something she would like to have, or even idly thinking about something that would make her happy, it appears. The thing practically produces condoms by the dozen. She’s gotten the answers to many Spanish homework assignments too many times to count (in Santana’s handwriting no less! Somehow her locker even knows that she can read Santana’s handwriting better than any other type of font). One time it was a bird, albeit a dead one, and Brittany had had to reevaluate her locker – perhaps it was more like the vanishing cabinet Malfoy had tried to fix than the Room of Requirement. Nonetheless, she’s always happily surprised at what turns up.

This time, however, it’s not a hamster, like Brittany had been hoping the last few weeks (a live one, this time, she had specified clearly) but something else that made her stomach jolt with equal amount of happiness.

A hard copy of a memory she wants to keep for a long time to come.

When she gets home and Santana falls on her bed in a tired heap, murmuring conjugations for her daily Spanish lesson, she takes the papers out of her bag, places them on the bed, grabs the tape from her desk, and begins to plaster them above her bed. Santana looks at her curiously.

“What are you doing?” she asks mid-conjugation of _Volver._

Brittany grins happily. “Hanging up some memories.”

A pause. Then Santana’s eyes widen.

“Is that… my ass?”

“Yup.”

“What!?” she shrieks, sitting up sharply on the bed while her mouth falls open almost comically. Brittany’s grin widens.

“What ‘what’? It’s a nice ass.”

“I know it’s a nice ass. Why do you have pictures of it?” A pause. “Wait, those are _photocopies_?”

“Yup,” Brittany says smugly. Santana’s face breaks out in a brilliant smile, and she chucks a pillow at Brittany’s head.

“You sly little sex-addict. You photo-copied my ass, didn’t you?” Her laugh is infectious, and Brittany laughs, back, throwing the pillow in her direction. It misses, and the photocopies scatter across the bed.

“No, pretty sure _you_ did that,” Brittany says pointedly.

“I did not.”

 “Yeah you did. Trust me.”

“No, I definitely didn’t.”

“I heard the machine.”

She knows Santana doesn’t remember – she’d been a little too busy giving into Brittany’s fingers and tongue – but Brittany _had_ heard the machine. She’d simply chosen to ignore it. She smirks again.

“So you took them from the copier? And now you’re, what, gonna hang them up on your wall?”

“Yup.”

“What if your parents see them?” Santana says with an eye roll.

“They’ll be happy isn’t not pictures of spider legs with miniature roller skates again.”

Santana laughs again, and Brittany smiles. She loves it when Santana laughs, especially when it’s an open, genuine sound like now – when she’s happy and honest and simply her best friend. She plops down on the bed next to her and grabs a photocopy.

“They’re awesome memories now.” She scoots closer and points at the photo. “See this? You still had your spanks on. You looked so hot, I couldn’t interrupt to take them off.” She drops the photo on the bed and ruffles through the rest to grab another. “Or this one? See my hand? Remember when I slipped it between your legs when I was eating you out? You felt so good and – ”

Suddenly Santana is on her. Her hand is still clutching the photocopy, but Santana has both her wrists trapped in her hands and is pressing them into the bed where it crumbles a photocopy.

“What are you doing?” Brittany asks in surprise.

“Returning the favor from this afternoon,” Santana purrs, and moves her thigh between Brittany’s legs. Brittany takes in a sharp breath of surprise.

“And I want you to keep thinking about everything you did to me, because I’m going to do the same to you. I’m going to make you feel as good as you made me feel.” Her voice is low and seductive, as it always gets when Brittany is pressed beneath her, and Brittany can feel her heart beat in her throat in excitement.

Although it’s tempting to let her thoughts stay in the moment and the way Santana presses her lips into Brittany’s neck, never letting go of her wrists, and gyrates her hips, Brittany follows instructions. With every movement of Santana’s body, every touch that sets fire to her skin, every lick and every push, she remembers this afternoon, and she doesn’t think she’s ever come so hard from the simple combination of vivid memories and skilled fingers or tongue – all of it _Santana._

When they’re finished, and Brittany’s throat is dry and graveled by the tireless way in which Santana had explored every inch of her body, the photo copies are beyond repair – crinkled and ripped and a few just a little stained – but Brittany doesn’t mind. She doesn’t need the memorabilia. The memories are burned into her mind, and she knows she’s got plenty of them still to make. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hours to write (seriously - this one about 9 hours), seconds to comment! Constructive criticism is also always appreciated.


End file.
